


Innately Evil

by PhantomEngineer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 20:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13959546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomEngineer/pseuds/PhantomEngineer
Summary: Written originally for an event regarding mental illness. It may be discomforting. There are references to self harm, suicidal thoughts, intrusive thoughts, that sort of thing.A reflective character study of sorts I suppose. Severus goes back to spying, a necessity of the war. It's not always easy, when your thoughts and feelings are chaotic and unstable, but Severus is good at managing.





	Innately Evil

When Poppy had seen the small, circular scars on his left forearm, remnants of it having been used as an ashtray to stub out countless cigarettes, she had tutted sympathetically, muttering vague words about muggle child abuse. He was relieved, in a way, as it mean she gave him space and left him alone. She never pried and paid no attention to those marks. Minerva had given them a hard stare when she first noticed, and then she’d given him an ashtray. She had noticed the pattern, that they had nothing to do with his father.

When the Dark Mark returned, the inky blackness stark on his skin, no one noticed the faded burns. They failed to cover the Mark entirely, a wasted effort. All eyes were drawn to that hideous design that burnt far deeper than his fags ever could. In many ways it was probably just as well. Being a Death Eater was normal, all kinds of people did that. A lot of them got locked up though.

He stood there, his sleeve drawn up exposing it without a second thought for the scars that lay over it, the scars that it overwhelmed. His mind was too full of agitation, a desperate itch on the edge of his consciousness, too full of repeated phrases and colours. But he stood there, holding himself together as the world fell apart, proving that everything had changed to those who refused to believe. Which one of them was delusional, he wondered, checking reality and finding the Dark Mark still there on his arm, bold and true, finding Fudge still unable to believe the evidence in front of him. His thoughts unravelling, twisting and turning as the world continued on, crashing towards war as it pretended the opposite. At least he knew chaos lay behind the calm facade, that all pretence of normalcy was just a fake mask.

Crazy people got locked up too, only without sympathy or trials, without a hope for release. Some of them were in Azkaban, he had no doubt. Some in nicer cells in St Mungos. The Wizarding World had improved, come a long way from how things had once been. Just like how it was no longer appropriate to openly discuss the killing of Squib children, now those were simply quietly kept hidden from the world. Sometimes Severus wondered if there were other people like him, a mass of seething snakes wrapped around themselves so tightly they were knotted and throttling each other, trying to burst free of his human skin. Emotions bubbling up and tearing him down, always on the brink of bursting forth. Always kept restrained, reigned in, a constant struggle to twist his snakes more and more around each other, to tangle them so they couldn’t break free. A balance that took focus and concentration, a life time spent constantly winding them around to hold himself bound made Occlumency easy to learn, the first suggestion that other people didn’t have a mind of hissing snakes.

He wondered sometimes what other people had in their minds. If they weren’t filled to the brim with wriggling snakes then were they empty? Or did they have something else there that his snakes hid from his view? Or was he simply lacking that part, a broken piece come loose in his brain and converted to a snake pit? Or maybe, just maybe, everyone else organised their snakes properly, kept them under control the way they were supposed to be, able to effortlessly calm them and soothe them when they threatened to strike, able to motivate and move them when they sulked like dead things, lolling all over within the cavity of his skull? Maybe he was just a failure at acting human, at managing, at coping with life. Maybe he should accept that, that he would never be good enough, that he might as well die. The world would be better off that way after all.

Minerva would be angry if he did kill himself. He laughed, lying on the floor of his rooms after another Occlumency lesson, because why not. Depression was hilarious, if you looked at it from the right angle. It was a bitter laughter, just like life. He liked to look on the bright side. One day, millions of years in the future, the sun would swallow the whole planet and put an end to all life on Earth. That fact always made Severus feel a bit more optimistic, though he wisely chose not to admit as much to anyone.

She’d tried to be a sympathetic ear, as well as a confidant. He was at the very least grateful that she at least kept it a secret, the time when she’d found him dying in his lab and had had the knowledge to feed him a bezoar. She could have palmed him off onto Poppy or spilled it all to Albus, but she’d been understanding so he had listened stoically to her well-intentioned lecture on moving on, on wanting to live. It seemed futile to tell her that he wasn’t depressed. She had a point, in her fury. Her line of questioning, was he trying to kill himself or was he that bad a Potions Master that he couldn’t even get the dose right? To say that he’d been perfectly aware that it was fatal and that he’d not been trying to kill himself made no sense outside of his own mind. He knew he would survive, because he couldn’t die. Everything would work itself out to make sure everything turned out right and it had, he hadn’t died. He’d just come closer than he intended.

In that moment of brewing he had been so perfectly confident, that he would take the potion and there would be no more depressive moments, both the slow, languid collapses of reality or the fast, fractured thoughts that shot through him like a silver bullet. A perfect cure, burn it all away and leave nothing but the mystical signals from beyond the human plane of reality. He didn’t like to think of that, of those thoughts, of those moments. It made him appreciate depression, at least the slow one. The fast one was both those moods at once, crashing together to create even more chaos, snakes screaming and dying, writhing and incapable of anything good. 

He didn’t want to push it, he didn’t know how Albus would react. He didn’t want to lose his position, he didn’t want to lose the respect he sometimes thought he had finally earned. He didn’t want Poppy prying, asking him questions. He didn’t want to explain himself. He didn’t want people to look at him, to see what went on under the surface. All of the hard work at keeping it under his skin, frantically stitching up the cracks in his reality, all going to waste.

He had built himself up so beautifully, so perfectly, a mask that could be presented to the world. Only too late had he realised that he had modelled himself on the wrong kind of people, that he should have structured himself differently. The cracks in that facade had started with the Prophecy, deepening on the hillside with Dumbledore. His mask, so carefully maintained, had shattered with Lily’s death. A moment of complete collapse, when for the first time since his early memories he had been just rawly, really himself. From that state he had rebuilt, because there was no other option, carefully learning from his previous mistakes and recreating himself in a new, better image. Only Albus had pushed against that, urging for him to retain the outward essence that would allow him to once more return to undercover work.

Albus had made such kindly, reassuring sounds about how lovely it was that Severus had changed for the better, as if he had been a corrupted vessel of filth that he had somehow managed to lead into the light, but how important it was that Severus maintained a dark aura. It had done nothing but inspire contempt in Severus, a clear proof that he had never understood that he had never actually met the real Severus. Believing that the structured wall that Severus built and painted for the outside world was the real him, rather than just a made up reality he provided for their comfort, for his own ease to avoid having to deal with them. Severus was the perfect spy, able to fool anyone.

Mortals didn’t understand, the thought he shook from his head. He was mortal too, that was hard to remember sometimes. That had been the problem, forgetting that what harmed people would harm him too. People never really understood. Severus had learnt, slowly but surely, how stupid everyone was. There was nothing to worry about, but he did worry that Albus would see inside his mind and decide that he couldn’t be trusted to be a spy. Severus didn’t trust himself with much, but he wouldn’t let that be taken away from him. He was careful. He made sure to always go through all the checks, all the tiny rules he had taught himself to make sure everything appeared almost normal. So he fooled Albus, in his own way. More than that, he fooled Voldemort and the Death Eaters, playing them beautifully. A mask even more impenetrable and immaculate than his Death Eater mask, hidden beneath his Death Eater mask, hidden beneath his skin, hidden within his very mind. Taken to be the absolute truth by those that considered themselves the greatest living wizards, incapable of seeing the chaos inside him, only seeing what they wanted to. 

He was suicidal, but he didn’t want to die. He wasn’t suicidal, but he wanted to die.

As he’d grown to know Minerva he wondered how much of it was her projecting. He hadn’t been heartbroken or in need of moving on at the time, but he saw then how she might see him as being like her, a young teacher beginning at Hogwarts after leaving their personal lives a burning, smouldering heap of disaster. So sometimes she would encourage him to go out into the world beyond Hogwarts, to meet people and maybe even date. She had certainly covered for him a few times, hopeful at a happy ending that Severus knew would never come. He wondered idly how she would react, how everyone would react when the consequence of one of those trips to town turned up at Hogwarts a few years down the line.

He was sensible and perfectly well versed in proper contraception. It just wasn’t ever a concern in those moods when nothing would ever go wrong, not the kind of thing that was considered too deeply when shagging a stranger in the alley behind a club off his head on ecstasy. He wondered if there were other consequences. Most of the strangers he never knew the names of so never heard from again. He could barely remember their faces. He didn’t do that anymore. There was no time now, every moment spent working towards Voldemort’s defeat. He had regretted every single instance, unable to ever fully wash the sensation of grime and guilt from his skin. It was easier and better to avoid people as much as possible, to stay away from them. Sometimes they were just too much effort, conversation draining and inane. Sometimes they were so puny in their tiny little minds, so unbelievably inane and dull. Sometimes he just didn’t want to put the effort in to acting like everyone else, wanting to just be left alone so he could allow his mind to unravel, to allow the snakes to work through their tangles a bit and find a form of relief.

He liked Minerva though. That was the only time they had talked feelings, an awkward half-lecture she performed as he had lain silently in bed, the magic of the bezoar working its way through him. A moment neither of them ever cared to remember, acting like it had never happened. In some ways Severus didn’t even think it counted as talking about their feelings, as Minerva had tried to talk about his, but really he thought that she had been talking about her own. He hated the words of emotions. And then he’d started to think, to wonder. What really was the difference between happiness and sadness anyway, they were almost the same thing. He wondered if he’d ever felt them, he couldn’t remember for sure. The other words he rarely used, even in his mind.

It would all go away if he mixed up the right potion, subduing the chaos inside his skull. Took the right dose religiously, rather than a one-off overdose of astronomical proportions. But then what would he be, empty like the shells of those the Dementors had Kissed… Or just another person like any other… He wasn’t sure. He didn’t like to think about it, about the other version of him that could have been. Would he be better or worse, alive or dead… It didn’t matter, he wouldn’t give it up for the world. 

Even if some days he would lie on the floor, his marking spread out around him to be left for later. There wasn’t really any point in doing anything else but lie there. Everyone died eventually, so why not lie on the floor. Sure, the bed or sofa would be more comfortable, but Severus didn’t care. Moving took too much effort. Later on, when he’d gathered his strength, he’d drag himself to his feet, brush his teeth and sleep in his bed. But not immediately, letting himself lie, letting the snakes in his mind rot away, decomposing down to putrid flesh and bare bones. 

The marking was never urgent. He had time. It wasn’t like students ever dared to demand homework back anyway. The crushing emptiness would pass. In a few days he’d be fine. The clouds of despair would lift and he’d have the other trouble to deal with. That him hated the other him. The other version of him would set lengthy homework and assign detention, never thinking that he’d switch and then have to mark the work, oversee the detention. It was fine when his soul was on fire, when he was so close to divinity that he didn’t need to sleep, when his mind ran so fast he could read minds without Legimancy, when everything was so easy. It was not fine when it took all of his strength to crawl to his bed. At least he didn’t have to drag himself through the arduous task of brewing Wolfsbane. That had been awful, with Lupin’s simpering smile a constant grating on his nerves. He had never been as angry, all the time, with everything making it worse. 

It’s just a bit of depression, Severus would think, nothing special. Nothing much. Nothing at all. It’d be over soon. It would be over quicker if he killed himself, of course, but that was too much effort. Besides, he knew that it would lift and colour would return to the world. It always did. It just felt like eternity, like nothing would ever be ok ever again. He thought those thoughts again as he dragged himself back to his quarters, Umbridge wearing away at his ability to cope with basic life even more than usual. 

Even if some days he didn’t sleep, lost himself completely. The world full of colours, far too many colours that other people couldn’t see, the taste of magic filling the air. He didn’t need a wand then, didn’t really need anything. Defeating Voldemort would be so easy, a mere flick of his fingers and yet the feeble tendril of common sense that restrained the worst of it kept him secluded away. Kept him from acting. Kept him from speaking. He could sense now, when he was talking too much, when he was giving his opinions, when he was burning up with divinity.

He should have died, he should never have been born. There would be no war or Voldemort if he hadn’t existed. It was all his fault, he was just innately evil. But he had been born, he continued to live so everything got worse. Voldemort had risen, and then had risen again, all because of him. Because he existed, the world was going to end, everyone was going to die, just like Lily had died, all because of him. He had to fix things, to put things right. He had to die. Once he died, Voldemort would cease to exist, crumble from reality. Everything would right itself, the world would heal. Now everything was polluted, darkness spreading to every inch of the world. The Longbottoms would recover, the cure to cancer would be found, or maybe cancer would just simply cease to be. He wasn’t sure of the details, just that everything would change the world to the utopia it was supposed to be. 

The fact that he was still alive was the final proof that he was an awful, selfish, coward. If he had a shred of human decency he would have killed himself years ago. Then all the people who had died, who had suffered, would not have done so. That was all his fault, for continuing to live. Everyone Voldemort had tortured and killed were his victims as much as they were Voldemort’s, more so. All the people dying of wars in far flung countries, or of famines, or of illnesses, it was all because he was still there allowing his wrongness to continue to seep throughout the world. He had to save them, had to put it right and die. He worried sometimes that he’d left it too late, that too much damage had been done and that the world wouldn’t be able to heal properly once he was removed. He knew that delaying would only make it worse.

He had to die. He didn’t want to die, he wanted to live. He was so selfish, such a bad person, the kind that could never deserve any sympathy. No one liked him. It was a relief to overhear any mattered dislike of him, proof that it wasn’t just his mind but actual reality. It always caused him so much distress when people were kind when they weren’t supposed to be. Albus hated him, he knew that. Albus knew, he suspected that, knew that he was the problem with the world that was causing all of the darkness. Albus was playing with him, acting kindly as if they were friends but Severus knew it was a lie. It had to be. The only reason Severus could think of was to fool him into revealing his inner thoughts, his weaknesses, so that Albus could broadcast them out to the world and everyone could laugh at them. As if the whole world was in on the joke, everyone waiting for the moment he embarrassed himself in public, trusted someone he shouldn’t. He should never trust anyone. He held onto the words that Albus had spoken on the hillside, the real feelings, the truth that kept him balanced against Albus’s act of kindness. The disgust Albus hid behind a pretty facade to lull him into a false sense of security.

He had to protect Harry. He delayed his death, protecting Harry, justifying it by rationalising that things were too far gone for a simple sacrifice, struggling to believe it. He felt consumed with guilt, eating away at every part of him as he continued to live and thus destroy the world. And then, the pressure would fade, the world would shift and he’d almost forget those thoughts had filled his mind so completely that he could barely do anything else. The colours would fade, return to normal then drain to grey and he’d be back to lying on the floor, his marking spread around him for later.

The cycle repeated, a constant of his life. He was grateful for it, grateful beyond all description. All the instability, every suicidal thought, every irrational moment, each one was a blessing in disguise, a silver lining in the mushroom cloud. It meant he could notice the details that were so easily missed amongst his students. It meant that he could help them, somehow. He could give them practical advice through hard experience rather than weak platitudes. He could say what he had needed to hear at their age, even if he still couldn’t bear to expose his feelings to the world. He could coil them tight, poke them to access those thoughts to understand, then find solutions. It was easier to care for others than it was to care for himself. He suspected he had become better at taking care of himself as he took care of them though, the advice slowly trickling through to his own life. 

It was a case of compromising, of finding ways to manage, just like he’d done since the belief that shampoo was poison had entered his mind at thirteen and had never truly left. A rational part of him knew it couldn’t be true, but no part of him could bear to have it anywhere near him. The alternatives had been a hit and miss series of trial and error, always a struggle to find a combination that his mind could accept and that would produce clean hair. An obsession he couldn’t quite overcome, couldn’t do anymore than accept that people would sometimes notice the grease that built up. But it was far preferable to actually using shampoo. He had hated the way Lockhart had smelt of shampoo, of all kinds of luxurious products, each one to Severus poison wrapped up in artificial scents that choked him. 

It was just a case of ignoring his mother when she would appear, hanging in the corner of the room, the noose digging into rotting flesh. Sometimes she would talk, a scratching voice mocking him no different to the one that would appear in his mind sometimes. Clear thoughts running through his internal monologue, interjecting comments like “I want to die” or “I’m going to kill myself” though he ignored them now, firmly replying that he didn’t want to die and wasn’t going to kill himself. It was all just in his head.

Just like when he’d been screaming at the students, brandishing a knife wildly. He’d also been kneeling on the floor, alone in his rooms, his hands empty. He’d also been screaming at himself, brandishing the knife at his own back as he knelt on the floor. The real him had been the one without the knife, the one crying in fear, unable to tell where he was or which one he was. It had faded. It always did.

He was in control, enough in control, to manage. Sometimes it was harder than others, like wading through quicksand. A gaping chasm in his chest where his heart should have been, the sensation of having been disemboweled, all the things that made him him having been scooped out and tossed carelessly on the floor. The emptiness and the crushing weight that bore down on him, that made even crawling a physical strain. The sorrow so deep that he couldn’t cry, because crying might help absolve the sensation but crying belonged to the world of the living and he wasn’t alive.

Sometimes it was harder than others, the stress of having to slow down to the pace of those around him causing no end of frustration. The ability to invent spells, to see potions recipes compose themselves before his eyes, the sensation of genius that seemed to obvious, so straightforward. The restless jittering that kept him from sleeping, that meant he moved constantly. He would patrol, always having check and double check if what he was seeing, if what he was hearing was real. Walking the castle to the point that his feet would ache, unable to stop. 

Sometimes it was harder than others, the moments of rage that were detached from reality, everything making him angrier. A constant burning inferno within fed by every action and every inaction possible, sweeping through him and leaving nothing but hatred. He had never been able to forgive, not once the fire had passed through and burnt away all that remained. The irritation that would hover at the edge of his mind, itching and writhing. The Dementors and Lupin between them had been the worst combination, pushing his mood to unholy fury more often than not. 

Sometimes it was harder than others, when everything was out of control, the bad thoughts flittering through his mind at the speed of lightning, unrestrained chaos as snakes rose up desperate to be free of his skin, the sensation of there being more of him inside than his physical casings made possible for.

But he survived. He wound the snakes inside his mind tighter, facing Voldemort as the perfect spy. Bringing back information and saving lives. Doing as he was instructed, carefully. Carefully planning to kill Dumbledore, an instruction that he’d had to probe away at, check with the full extent of his ability, observe in every mood to ensure it was real. He would see it all through to the end, do his duty in perfect control. Set Harry up to defeat Voldemort, protect the children as best he could, fix everything that needed fixing. His mind blanked out to anyone that might read it, a calm front hidden behind the walls of Occlumency, hiding the truth.


End file.
